


A Cure for the Final Problem

by Saasan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't want to give spoilers with tags, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 19:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13841571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saasan/pseuds/Saasan
Summary: As far as Sherlock knows, he's back in rehab, but something is amiss.  Why won't John come visit him?Or, a story in which the author has Too Many Feels.





	A Cure for the Final Problem

**Author's Note:**

> I have Rosie call Sherlock "Uncle Shurlo" because I like to believe that "Sherlock" would be too hard for a child to say, and then the name just stuck (her privilege only, though, because Sherlock is wrapped around her finger).

Sherlock was not the sort of person to take prison sitting down, and that was precisely what he told Nurse Stevens as she rounded the corner into his room.

 

“That mean you’re walking today, Mr. Holmes?” she said gruffly, yanking his chair perhaps a touch harder than necessary as she maneuvered him around.

 

Sherlock huffed indignantly. His latest stint in rehab was particularly insufferable, and he suspected Mycroft had selected several of these nurses on purpose.

 

“How is he today?” a cheerful assistant asked as Sherlock was wheeled past.

 

“His royal grumpiness is in excellent spirits,” Stevens responded.

 

“His hearing is fantastic and he notes that your lipstick is not a sufficiently dark shade to hide the beginnings of a herpes outbreak,” Sherlock snapped. “And no, it’s not just a spot!” he added loudly as Stevens pushed faster.

 

She rattled his chair a little as they approached the sitting room. “Manners, Holmes. I’m sick of comforting orderlies every time you open your mouth.”

 

“Morning, Sue! Morning, Sherlock!” sang out a sprightly little nurse. “How are you both? Anyone drawn blood yet?” She grinned mischievously and winked at Sherlock.

 

Stevens parked Sherlock’s chair next to a sofa. “Hi Jerri. He cut up O’Neil on the way in here. He’s got the devil in him today.”

 

“I should say not as the position of possessed host is already being played by you,” Sherlock growled. “Careful there!”

 

Stevens had lifted him from his chair and unceremoniously propped him up on the couch. Jerri quickly arranged his pillows and tucked a blanket around his legs.

 

“There you are,” Jerri said happily. “Good as new. Rosie coming in today?”

 

“It’s John’s day,” Sherlock asserted.

 

Jerri frowned a little at Stevens who shrugged and began to wheel away Sherlock’s chair. “Hiding this a bit for you, Holmes,” she said, “but if you really want Rosie to think you walked in here, maybe have breakfast once in a while, yeah? You’d give the cook a heart attack if you actually ate a meal, and I know you love a fuss.”

 

Sherlock sniffed. “I do not love a fuss, Nurse Warden. I simply remind those who choose to ignore me that I am still here and in need of care, or else what the devil is my brother paying you lot for?” He frowned and fiddled with the edge of his blanket. “Where is Mycroft? I haven't seen his insufferable face for ages. Thought he'd be round by to gloat again and have a play at brotherly affection.”

 

Jerri exchanged another glance with Stevens.

 

“Well, I don’t think he’s coming by _today_ , Sherlock,” Jerri said cautiously.

 

“He should. I’ve been making progress,” Sherlock said firmly.

 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, you've been doing lovely. Only one escape attempt so far this week!” Jerri teased brightly.

 

“It was not an escape attempt. I was proving a point.”

 

Jerri smiled. “Were you now. And what point was that?”

 

Sherlock frowned. “I...I can't remember. I must've deleted it.”

 

A few more residents were being arranged in the sitting room. Visiting hours were about to begin. One older man tugged his attendant’s sleeves.

 

“Hey, that’s Sherlock Holmes. He used to be a famous detective!” he cried excitedly.

 

“And you baked wedding cakes until your wife left you for a banker,” he barked back. “At least no one ever left me,” Sherlock muttered angrily to himself, ignoring the commotion he’d created as the other man grew agitated and had to be removed from the room.

 

Behind him, Stevens remarked to Jerri that she was an absolute saint to put up with Sherlock and the girl only shook her head with a little smile and said “He’s not all bad. He’s just lonely.” but Sherlock didn’t hear it.

 

Stevens brought Sherlock his stack of newspapers to read as he waited for visiting hours to get properly started. He was only halfway through one before a short, lively young woman interrupted him with an affectionate peck on the cheek.

 

“Hello, Uncle Shurlo,” she said. “Are you looking for a case?”

 

“I've got a case. It's the case of the missing newspaper and frankly, it's extremely dull,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowed as he glowered at Stevens.

 

“Stevens didn't take your paper, Shurlo. They stopped printing _The Sunspot_.”

 

Sherlock looked up, startled. “What the devil for?” He glowered again at Stevens, as though the abused nurse was responsible for the paper's downfall. “Why didn't anyone tell me?”

 

Rosie smiled patiently. “I did, Shurlo. You told me to sod off.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “That sounds like me.”

 

Rosie chatted lightly about her life, and Sherlock asked her sharp questions about school and if everyone was being nice to her, sagely reminding her that he knew over 17 ways to hide a body using only household items, and Rosie pointed out that the things Sherlock considered to be “household items” were not necessarily usual items in other peoples’ houses.

 

“People don’t have bone saws,” she explained with patient amusement.

 

“They should,” Sherlock remarked, contemplating again the many and varied failings of the Common Man. He was lost in thought momentarily and then suddenly glanced around.

 

“Where is John? He is late. Is it not Wednesday?”

 

“It's Thursday, Mr. Holmes,” Stevens said crisply as she picked up the assorted newspapers Sherlock had discarded.

 

“Then he's _very_ late.”

 

Rosie placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm and squeezed gently. “Dad isn’t coming in today, okay? You know that. But I’m here. Don’t you want to talk with me some more?”

 

“Where _is_ John? Why isn't he here when I need him?!” Sherlock muttered crossly, more to himself than anyone. “Bloody imbecile. He never listens.” He resolutely ignored Rosie’s attempts at conversation as he wrote up a treatise on The Inconstancy of John in seven languages and then determined it would be better if set to music.

 

“I said fetch my violin. I’m composing,” he said irritably to no one in particular.

 

“Did you want to go back to your room now, Mr. Holmes?” Jerri asked gently, kneeling by him and placing a hand on his knee.

 

“Well, if John’s not coming then I don’t see what the bloody point would be in staying out here with those damned addicts,” he hissed. He crossed his arms. “I’m a user, not an addict, and the sooner the nitwits who run this hellhole realize that, the better for us all.”

 

He grumbled when Rosie hugged him but insisted she give her goodbye kiss before she left. She assured him she’d be by again soon and he thanked her for the warning. She walked out into the lobby where a tall young man waited. He kissed her forehead.

 

“Hey, love. How did it go with Shurlo today?” he asked.

 

The shorter woman tried to look nonchalant as she shrugged into the coat he held out for her. “He was in rare form today. Very energetic.”

 

“I’m sure he’s delighted you came by,” the man assured her. “Do you want me to come in with you next time?”

 

Rosie sighed, tired. “He'd hate you, Tom. He still thinks I'm a little girl and shouldn't be 'mucking about with boys', only he uses stronger words. It's just not a good idea.” She looked smaller, suddenly, slouching in on herself. Tom immediately opened his arms and she sagged into them, closing her eyes as he rubbed soothing circles into her back.

 

“It's fine, love. I know your uncle is important to you, and it’s been hard on you lately. That's all,” Tom said softly. “You can introduce me sometime when he’s doing better.”

 

“That's the thing,” Rosie said in a tiny voice. “I don't know if he ever will be.”

 

Tom pressed her gently closer and let her cry. They stayed that way for a long time before, slightly comforted, Rosie took his hand and tugged him along as she stepped out into the cold sunlight.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

“Have you seen him? Have you seen my John?” Sherlock grabbed the arm of a passing nurse. “He's supposed to come. Send him to me.”

 

“Sorry, he’s a bit bad today,” Stevens said as she pushed him back to his room.

 

“I am bad every day and you know it,” Sherlock retorted.

 

Stevens snorted a laugh. “Don’t I ever.” She rolled him to his bed. “Nap time?” she asked. “I’ll set up some music for you if you like.”

 

He muttered something that was (probably) rude when she settled him under his covers which she ignored. She turned on his music and paused at the door. “You call me if you need me, yeah?” she said hesitantly. “But not for your casework,” she added before he could say anything, rolling her eyes.

 

Sherlock arranged his fingers and began to compose his accompaniment to The Inconstancy of John, deciding it merited a symphony and would need to be tailored according to translation. It was nice to have something to think about again. He slipped gradually from meditation into sleep without noticing he was tired at all.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

He’d gotten on the roof again. He was very good at it—made it up there at least three times a week. He was a bit proud of himself only he really wished he didn’t do it; he didn’t like it up there. Jim was always there.

 

Jim greeted him like an old friend, smiling wide. “He won't be here when you get back~” he teased in a sing-song voice, the words lilting and falling like music. Falling, falling. Like music.

 

Sherlock approach him slowly. It was always dangerous to talk to Jim, but it didn’t help if he was quiet. If he didn’t talk, Jim would just talk more.

 

“Yes he will. John is mine. He knows that. He knows me. And I'm jumping so he'll be fine. And I'll be back soon,” Sherlock explained, listing out his logic carefully.

 

“It doesn't matter. He won't wait,” Jim said airily.

 

Sherlock suppressed a tremor. “I'll be back,” he said resolutely.

 

“But he won't be here.”

 

“Yes he will. I'm coming back, John. John! John can you hear me! John, I'm coming back! Wait for me, John! I have something I need to tell you!” Sherlock shouted. He rushed to the edge of the roof and stood still, franticly searching the ground for any sign of his friend. Mobile. Didn’t he have a mobile? A sudden crunch behind him made him spin around. Jim casually crushed the remains of the phone under his heel.

 

“He wasn’t going to pick up,” he said with a cheerful indifference.

 

“Yes he would,” Sherlock said hoarsely. “John always comes when I need him.”

 

“Then where is he?” Jim grinned. He sauntered to the edge of the roof and looked down. “I don’t see him, do you~?”

 

Sherlock cautiously looked over the edge again. Had it always been so far away, the ground? He wouldn’t survive if he fell. But where was John? John was supposed to be down there. He needed to find John. There was something important he needed to tell him. He needed John to wait. Please, John, just wait. This time, just wait.

 

Beside him, Jim giggled. “I’ve heard that if you die in your dreams, you die in real life. Would you like to find out? It could be fun. An experiment! You like those, don’t you, Sherlock?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said faintly. “I like experiments. If I fall, will I find John?”

 

Jim’s face loomed in front of him, his smile so broad and wide Sherlock could see into his mouth—a mouth that was empty and had no back at all.

 

“That depends on how hard you hit the ground, doesn’t it? Toodles, Sherry dear!” he said happily, and hopped off the roof.

 

Sherlock lunged after him, catching him in the air and grappling with him because he _had_ to—if he didn’t, Jim would fall on John, would crush him like he did the phone, like he did everything. He _had_ to, John.

 

He awoke with a start. Someone—several someones?—was talking. “He’s been like that for days,” said a worried voice.

 

“I’ve been like this my whole life!” Sherlock growled. No one looked at him. Oh. Had he not said it out loud? Maybe not awake enough yet.

 

He couldn’t quite make out who was there. Rosie, maybe. Probably Jerri or Stevens and a doctor. They were all so _loud_ —why wouldn’t anyone let him sleep? And the machines! Why were there machines in here, making so much noise? Beeping and blinking their tiny lights. He closed his eyes and cleared out the sounds, and when he opened his eyes again there was a little man standing between him and all the Loud People.

 

“You look like you could use some company,” the little man said, carefully hobbling to a chair and arranging himself comfortably, setting a cane across his knees.

 

“You have a cane.”

 

The little man grinned. “That I do. I’d heard you were clever.”

 

Sherlock ignored the small insult. “I had a friend who had a cane, but I cured it. His limp. I fixed it but then my niece told me he was having surgery for it. Which was wrong because I fixed it. And she shouldn’t lie to me,” he added angrily.

 

“Sometimes things that were fixed get broken again,” the little man said simply.

 

“No,” Sherlock said, agitated. “Not if you fix them right.”

 

“Well, in my case, I’m just a silly old man who fell in the tub and broke my hip, so I’ll need the cane for a while,” he replied. “They kept me in hospital for weeks, if you can believe that. All sorts of therapy, and when I told them I learned how to walk on my own years ago, no one thought it was funny.” He leaned forward. “No one thinks old people can make jokes.”   He straightened back up. “But I got an infection of some kind, so there you go. Bad business.”

 

Sherlock nodded, thoughtfully. “Over prescription of anti-biotics followed by improper use of medication has resulted in numerous strains of resistant bacteria for which there is no cure.”

 

“Precisely.”

 

They were silent together for a while. It was nice. Sherlock felt himself relaxing some, and he began to study the little man more.

 

“Have you ever grown a mustache?” he asked. “You shouldn’t.”

 

The little man chuckled. “Yes, I have, and I’ve been reliably informed by a very smart friend that it was a bad idea.”

 

Sherlock nodded in solemn agreement. He was glad, somehow, that the little man had a smart friend to tell him things like that. He relaxed further and the little man relaxed, too, content to sit in his chair and smile at him from time to time. Sherlock twisted the edge of this blanket thoughtfully.

 

“I have a friend,” he said, “who won’t visit me.”

 

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” that the little man said with gentle sincerity.

 

“My niece keeps making excuses for him, but it’s my fault. I'm sorry I made him angry. He's always so angry at me. I forget him places and I die sometimes but not to be mean. He's so petty. He's so petty and he's always so angry and I need to tell him I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped. Will you tell him that, when you see him? I'm sorry I jumped. I didn't mean it,” Sherlock said, his eyes pleading as he entreated the little man.

 

The man looked so soft and sad. “He’s your friend—don’t you think he wouldn’t stay mad at you?” he asked.

 

“But I have something I need to tell him,” Sherlock urged. “He needs to know. Please tell him. Tell John I'm sorry. I didn't want to jump. Will you tell him that? When you see him?”

 

“Yes, Sherlock, I'll tell him.”

 

Sherlock slumped back, slightly mollified, but still anxious. He tapped his fingers in oscillating patterns on the bed's railing. “It's important. Important that he knows, you see, because I didn't tell him.”

 

“It's okay, Sherlock. He knows,” the little man said softly.

 

The tapping continued. Some blasted machine began beeping again.

 

“He doesn't know. He doesn't. I didn't tell him. So many times I wanted to. But it was because of Redbeard. I told Redbeard I loved him, and they put him down. So, I couldn't, you see? I couldn't tell John I loved him.”

 

“It's okay, Sherlock,” the little man said, clasping Sherlock's hand tightly. Why was the little man crying? Odd. “He knows. And he loves you, too.”

 

“Of course he does—he loves everyone,” Sherlock scoffed. “It's downright cancerous.”

 

The little man chuckled and wiped at one of his eyes. “Yes,” he said, “but he loves you particularly. And he’s sorry too, you know. He has such a temper, that John, and he’s petty and holds grudges.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head vigorously and the little man chuckled again.

 

“But he wouldn’t stay mad, you know. Not forever. John wouldn’t stay mad at Sherlock. He loves Sherlock very much,” said the little man, and this time he was the one who was pleading. “Do you understand?”

 

Sherlock considered all this cautiously, and it sounded very nice, but things didn’t usually stay Very Nice for very long.

 

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” he asked hesitantly.

 

The little man smiled. “Because I know John,” he said. Sherlock brightened immediately and the little man smiled wider. “I know where he is. Do you want to come see him? Are you ready now?”

 

Sherlock sat up in bed, feeling more energetic than he had a long, long time. “Yes, yes I would,” he said eagerly. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed while the little man stood up, disregarding his cane as it clattered to the floor. He looked much younger, all of a sudden. His hair was gold and his face with smooth and happy. He held out his hand and Sherlock took it, and suddenly he understood: he’d waited. Maybe not before, when Sherlock hadn’t asked him, but this time he’d waited.

 

John had waited after all.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've read (and enjoyed) a lot of stories where Sherlock is in all kinds of peril and he uses his clever mind to get out of it. That's sort of the whole point of Sherlock--he's brilliant. So, it occurred to me that the ultimate problem for Sherlock would be something involving his own mind, and frankly the "high and lost in the Mind Palace" thing is over done. What about if he survived all the wild adventures and then had to face old age? What would he be like if he couldn't use his mind anymore? That's what got me started on this story.
> 
> I've never had a loved one with dementia, but I work in the medical field and I've seen a lot of heartbroken families. It hurts on the days when they remember you and it hurts on the days they don't. I hope it was clear but not *too* obvious (at the start) that Sherlock thinks he is in rehab but is in fact now quite old and in a nursing facility. John has died from a surgical infection and Sherlock refuses to believe it because he "cured" John's hip. Rosie and the nurses don't bring it up anymore. Sherlock has continual nightmares about the Fall and thinks John never forgave him. You can consider his talk of love as either Johnlock or platonic--either is fine with me. ^_^ The important part is: Sherlock dies feeling forgiven. If you want that to be him talking to John's ghost (waiting for him in the after life) or just a happy hallucination, that's fine. Sherlock is at peace and that's the main bit!
> 
> Partially inspired by the incredible story The Jilting of Granny Weatherall, which if you haven't read, I highly recommend you leave immediately and go read it (and then come back to leave me kudos and comments).


End file.
